


Aftermath

by calmersky



Series: Interpolation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And they like it, Canon Compliant, F/M, Molly deduces the Holmes brothers, Molly swears too much, Mycroft & Molly friendship, Mycroft is a Softie, Sherlock is emotionally compromised, Sherlock is emotionally fragile, Sherlolly - Freeform, loose threads, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-25 00:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9794585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmersky/pseuds/calmersky
Summary: Yet another TFP Sherlolly resolution fic. Set immediately after the events at Sherrinford and Musgrave. Sherlock needs Molly's help to deal with the emotional fall out of that phone call





	1. Mycroft

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at Sherlolly, and my first fic after a very long break. Hopefully the inspiration will continue and allow me to finish it.
> 
> This is such a slow burn that Sherlock doesn't even appear in the first chapter. I blame Mycroft. He needs a little love too.
> 
> Un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has some explaining to do. Molly makes a deduction.

It had been, to put it mildly, one of those days. Molly stood shivering on the pavement, looking back up the street towards the lights of her flat, which were barely visible beyond the police vans and cars. What should she do? Wait? She watched as two uniformed officers began setting out a temporary barricade to block the street completely. It certainly didn't look like something that would be resolved any time soon. 

 As she was wondering who she could call at this time of night, she heard a car pull up behind her. Then she realised her phone was ringing.

 Molly looked down and read the name, relieved it was him, and not _him_. 

"Mycroft," she said, "I'm guessing you're about to explain why a bomb disposal team just kicked me out of my flat at four in the morning?"

"Yes, Miss Hooper. Do get in the car."

"So you know... my flat... a bomb? _Really?_ " 

"The car, first, please."

Molly glanced back towards her flat and then to the blacked-out car that was waiting for her. It wasn't as if she has many other options. She opened the car door and got in.

"Okay, I'm in. But I haven't got anything with me, not even my purse. They wouldn't let me take anything-"

"Molly," he interrupted her, and she couldn't remember him ever using her first name before. "Please remain calm. You are in safe hands now. A threat was made against you. It will most likely turn out to be no more than that, but we need to conduct a thorough check of your home to be certain. You will be allowed to return in a couple of days once we're satisfied everything is in order." 

_Allowed_. Here we go. He was worse than Sherlock. Molly didn't know whether to be irritated or afraid, and frankly she was too tired to care.

"So," she said, deciding not to be rude; after all, Mycroft might simply be trying to help her. " Where am I going?"

"A safe house. It's not far. You should be there in less than a quarter of an hour. Sherlock is also staying there, temporarily. He will join you a little later."

"Oh god, this isn't all Sherlock's doing, is it?" she said. "Because I had a very strange phone call from him earlier, and it wouldn't be beyond him to invent a bomb threat just so he could force me to accept his apology and clear his conscience."

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Mycroft?"

"No, Miss Hooper, this is very much not a game, I'm afraid. I think it would be better if I explained everything in person."

~*~

He was waiting for her, umbrella in hand, when the car pulled up in a narrow street somewhere in the City of London. 

"After you," he said, pushing open the thick steel door to reveal a dimly-lit hallway beyond. Molly stepped inside, feeling a bit like she was entering a prison. Ahead of her, steps led ominously down.

"So what's this... a nuclear bunker?" She joked.

"As it happens, yes," Mycroft said.

Molly glanced back at him with a raised eyebrow.

"But also my basement guest apartment. Take the steps down and second door on the left."

"This is your house?"

"Indeed."

_And you keep your guests in the dungeon. Of course you do._

Molly pushed open the second door, as he had instructed (heavy, thick, most likely steel too) and was relieved to find that the room beyond it was relatively normal. A comfortable, if plainly-furnished living room, with sofa, two armchairs, a desk, mahogany sideboard and matching bookcase full of antique volumes. She looked around for signs of inhabitation.

"Sherlock is perfectly safe and well and will be returning in a few hours," Mycroft said answering her unasked question. "I've informed him of your arrival."

"Wait, how did you-"

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes, and indicated a further door directly opposite the one from which they had entered. "Bedrooms, bathroom and kitchen are through there, all stocked with various items to meet the needs of the emergency guest forced to flee their house in the middle of the night with no belongings. I am sorry about that, by the way, but if you will allow me to explain you'll see I had little choice."

It was only then that she noticed how pale and drawn he looked. He was desperately tired, she realised, and there was more than that: he looked, empty... _defeated_ , and yet here he was, trying to be hospitable. This was a side to Mycroft she had not seen before. Whatever had happened in the past few hours was serious. It had taken its toll. 

She took a step towards him, speaking gently. "What's going on?"

He extended a hand towards the seating area. "It's a long story. Do take a seat while I get us a drink."

Molly sat down anxiously on the edge of the sofa. She took a sip from the glass of water he'd poured for her, then placed it back on the coffee table. 

Mycroft, in the nearest armchair, tapped long fingers against his glass of brandy, as if wondering - _worrying_ \- where to begin.

Instinctively, Molly leant forward, touching his knee with just the tips of her fingers. "Whatever this is, I won't judge you, Mycroft, and I won't repeat any of this."

Mycroft didn't respond directly to that; he merely glanced at where she was touching him and pressed his lips together. But at least he didn't flinch away. He swirled his drink and downed it, then set the glass down carefully next to hers before he spoke. 

"Sherlock and I have a sister. Her name is Eurus."

And so he told her everything. The story of his sister, their childhood, the bomb at Baker Street, and the events at Sherrinford. He kept to bare facts, and with no intention to convey emotion, but by the time he had finished, Molly had slipped off her shoes and was curled in the corner of the sofa, hugging a cushion to her chest, her face stained with tears. She had cried for the people who lost their lives in Eurus's games, for Sherlock, for John, and what they had been through in the past 24 hours.

And she had cried for Mycroft, who seemed to have taken on the weight of the world when he was only a child himself. Who still felt terribly guilty for something that was so clearly not his fault.

Mycroft, who, other than loosening his tie, had not moved from his perfectly composed position in the armchair.

He caught her studying him and mistook her concern. "Sherlock is on his way back from Musgrave now," he said, his voice cracking on the 'a' of 'Musgrave', "and I have obviously been talking far too long, my voice is shot." He stood. "So, if you'll excuse me, I have some other matters to attend to."

Molly looked up at him and nodded. "Of course."

He crossed the room and opened a drawer in the sideboard.

"Here," he said, offering her a handkerchief.

"Thank you,' she said, spotting the monogrammed initials before blowing her nose. "Sorry for crying."

"That is quite alright, under the circumstances," he said, with some amusement, before retrieving his coat and umbrella. Then her turned to her, hesitating.

"Do you need something from me, Mycroft? Just say it, I'm too tired for manners and I suspect you are too."

He looked up at her. "Yes, you are right, on both counts."

"Come on then, or I'll give you your hanky back."

He gave her one of his brief smiles before speaking. "Molly, you have been far kinder to Sherlock than he deserves, and have remained his friend despite his his foolish behaviour and his repeated cruelty towards you, albeit unintended. It seems unreasonable, therefore, to ask you to continue to extend that kindness when my brother already owes you such a great debt." 

Mycroft looked up, tilting his chin as if he had to steel himself to look her in the eye while he continued. "Nevertheless I am going to ask that of you. I do not claim to understand matters of the heart but it is evident that the depth of Sherlock's feelings for you are not to be underestimated. Please do not abandon him, not now."

Silently, Molly got up and padded across the thick rug to him. 

She couldn't help it; she took his hand and squeezed it. "You love him too."

That was not what he expected her to say. Not at all. 

Mycroft was silent for a while, looking down at her two small hands holding his, a frown creasing his forehead. "Yes," he said, eventually, as if he realised there was no point in denying it. "Yes, I do."

"That's actually a good thing, you know," she said, carefully.

"I'm not sure I can agree."

"I will never be convinced otherwise."

"Then my brother is a fortunate man."

"And what about you?" she said, giving his hand a tug. "Who looks after you?"

Startled, Mycroft took a moment to reply. "I...this is not about me."

Molly smiled at him. "No, it never is, is it?" She let his hand drop and folded her arms across her chest. "It's okay though. I understand. We just manage, don't we? Get the hell on with it. Carry the fuck on."

Her choice of language has surprised him a bit, but once he recovered from that, he processed the meaning behind her words. She watched his expression change as he realised what she meant. She'd only just realised it herself, the second before she said it. 

They had something in common, the two of them. They were the ones other people needed. The ones prone to self-neglect. 

Mycroft was looking at her oddly now: studied her, as if she were some intriguing specimen he'd never seen before.

It was rather fun to watch.

"Don't worry about Sherlock," she said reaching up on her tiptoes, taking advantage of his shock and daring to press a tiny kiss on his cheek. "Leave him to me." 


	2. Hollow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for commenting on the first chapter! This one went a bit off piste. Why, oh why did I decide to try and write Sherlock's POV? I hope it's OK. Do let me know!
> 
> As always, unbeta'd, etc etc.

 

It was already light when Sherlock arrived at Mycroft's house on Chequer Street. He'd slept for most of the drive back to London, fatigue hitting him like a wall once the adrenaline high of Eurus's final “game” at Musgrave wore off. It must have amounted to a couple of hours, and he'd routinely survived on less when he was in the middle of a case, but now he was bone-tired and ready to crash out. He couldn't yet, though. There were other matters to attend to before he would be able to sleep properly.

On the terrace of the penthouse suite, he smoked two cigarettes in succession before making his way inside to the bathroom, where he stripped off his dirty clothes and stepped into the steam shower, turning up the temperature as high as he could bear. When he'd finished washing away the dust and grime of Sherrinford and Musgrave, he turned the tap fully to cold, counting to sixty before he shut the water off, shivering as he grabbed a towel and dried off.

Good. It was working already. The combined effects of nicotine and the temperature shock should help keep him alert for long enough to face the person currently asleep downstairs.

Sherlock had been unimpressed when he found out that his interfering brother had taken it upon himself to accommodate Molly in his "guest apartment," or whatever Mycroft insisted on calling the glorified bunker he'd made available for Sherlock's use while 221b was uninhabitable. Mycroft had not, of course, been generous enough to offer Sherlock the penthouse, even though he never used it himself, for whatever dull reason. Still, he hadn't expressly forbidden Sherlock from coming up here. Or possibly he had.

Mycroft had brought Molly here for her own safety, he accepted that, and Sherlock had to admit that he certainly felt better knowing that Molly was in the same building. He fetched the razor and soap he'd brought up from the basement bathroom. As he applied shaving soap to his face, he reasoned that he _should_ also be pleased that he'd soon have the opportunity to resolve the issue of the phone call Eurus had forced him to make to Molly. Rationally, it should be straightforward. He would only need to explain the circumstances: that he had had to make her say a certain phrase to save her life. She almost certainly would still be angry at him; she was no pushover, but after a little while she would calm down, and forgive him, and everything would be back to normal. Which was what he wanted. Yes, he should be pleased.

And yet.

He wasn't.

The scenario he'd just run through didn't please him at all.

Sherlock cursed as the blade nicked his skin. He was being clumsy, his right hand far too stiff and painful to hold the razor properly. He tried his left, which had fared better, but which, it quickly became apparent, was completely incapable of operating a razor. Aborting the attempt, he wiped the soap from his face with a flannel in disgust and threw the razor into the bin.

Other than a sore patch on his neck where the tranquillizer dart had hit him, his hands were the only notable injury from this particular adventure. Of all the twisted games his sister had subjected them to, it only took a three minute phone call with Molly Hooper to make him lose control and demolish a coffin with his bare hands. He remembered the swell of pain, fear and anger as he placed the lid on the coffin and imagined her-

_No_. He wouldn't think about it again.

Neither would he dwell on the content of that phone call. The situation was entirely false, designed specifically by Eurus to manipulate his emotions. It followed that any emotions he'd experienced during those three minutes were not valid. Whatever he thought he'd felt, or understood; whatever suspicions he'd believed were confirmed, when he'd said certain words, they were not from the perspective of objectivity. The evidence would not stand. He couldn't trust himself, no matter how tempting it was.

Besides, he'd long ago deduced that Molly Hooper deserved better than Sherlock Holmes. All evidence to date suggested she had reached the same conclusion. She had become engaged, after all, when she knew he was still alive.

And yesterday, she might have said she loved him, but she hadn't seemed particularly pleased about it.

_It's true. It's always been true._

Sherlock was startled by the tender feelings that flooded him as he remembered Molly's words. Her face. Her voice.

Her admission had been something of a revelation. Sherlock had been well aware of Molly's crush on him, all those years ago, but he hadn't thought she still harboured those sorts of feelings for him. But then love was a psychotic delusion; there was no requirement for it to be logical. It was perfectly possible to both love and hate someone at the same time.

And, as Eurus had so clearly demonstrated, Sherlock would only hurt Molly, he would frustrate her, and he would put her at risk. He couldn't have her.

_Get yourself a piece of that,_ said a voice in his head. _While there's still a chance._

He couldn't.

_The person she thought I was, is the person I want to be._

“Shut up John,” Sherlock muttered, and headed to the bedroom.

The trousers of the dark blue suit he'd brought upstairs were no problem, but he struggled with the buttons of the shirt, very nearly ripping the whole thing off when he noticed one of the cuts on his hands had opened and stained the white fabric. He didn't have another spare here so it would just have to do. He left the suit jacket on its hanger and instead slipped his dressing gown over the top of the shirt, tying the belt to disguise the mess he'd made.

Sherlock checked his phone: A text from John, one from Lestrade, a voicemail from his mother, two missed calls from Mycroft. Nothing urgent. It was past eight now; Molly should surely be awake. Feeling apprehensive, he took the lift back down to the basement.

Finding the kitchen empty of Molly, his stomach contracted with a hollow feeling he decided was hunger, although he knew it wasn't, not really.

He put the kettle on and found the coffee press, and was leaning against the counter waiting for the coffee to brew when Molly appeared in the doorway. Her hair was loose and damp from the shower, she was wearing thick-rimmed glasses, leggings wrinkled at the ankles and a pale blue over-sized shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The sight of her made the hollow feeling ease a bit, and maybe it showed on Sherlock's face because Molly pushed her glasses up her nose and gave him a confused little smile.

A lock of her hair slipped down over her cheek as she tilted her head, and he wondered how she'd react if he crossed the room and tucked it back out of the way.

Eventually, he became aware that the moment had stretched silently on into awkwardness, and that he should probably say something.

“Would you like-” he began...

“You've made-” she started...

“Coffee?” they both finished, simultaneously.

“Yes. Thanks.” Molly said, crossing the room too quickly to fetch the milk from the fridge while he poured her a cup. He added sugar to his black coffee and left it to cool, stuffing his injured hands in his dressing gown pockets.

Molly had slid her cup along the counter so she could stand a bit further away from him, he noticed, as she added the milk.

_Right,_ Sherlock thought. _Apology, explanation, forgiveness. Let's get this out of the way._

But the words wouldn't form.

“Mycroft told me what happened,” Molly said, still not looking at him. “About... about your sister. And those awful games that she made you play, why you had to make that phone call, and...  and what happened with your friend when you were a child, and Sherlock I know you probably won't want to talk about it which is fine but I'm sorry, about all of it. I'm sorry you had to go through all of that.”

Well she was right about that. He didn't want to talk about it. Neither did he like the idea of Mycroft and Molly having cosy chats in his absence. Or that Molly was keeping her distance, as if she were afraid of him.

“Why do people always say that?” he snapped. “That they're sorry. It's so... meaningless.” 

Still looking down, fiddling about stirring her drink, Molly raised an eyebrow, her lips quirked a sarcastic smile.

She'd smiled like that on the camera, he remembered.

_Say it anyway._

_You bastard._

He sighed at himself, grimacing. “Sorry, Molly. I mean... thank... you.”

“S'okay,” she said, with a shrug, shuffling over to stick a couple of slices of bread in the toaster.

Sherlock watched her.

_Don't do this. Please, just... don't. I can't say those words to you._

He took a gulp of his coffee. “So what did Mycroft tell you... about the phone call?”

“That your sister made you believe she'd planted a bomb in my flat, and that you had three minutes to make me say... a certain phrase in order to save my life.”

_She can't say it. She still can't say it._

“So you... forgive me?” he said, relieved that Mycroft seemed to have omitted the incident with the coffin. Best Molly didn't know about that.

“You didn't have a choice,” she said lightly. “Nothing to forgive.”

She wasn't angry at him. How could she not be angry? He'd seen how upset she was. He couldn't stand it. He prefer it if she slapped him.

Sherlock took a step towards her, looming over her until she had to look up at him. “Molly. I need you to know... I would never make you say something like that, just as part of some stupid game. Never. When I was away, dismantling Moriarty's network, I had plenty of time to think about how I'd behaved towards you in the past, and I promised myself that I'd never hurt you like that again.”

Molly smiled up at him, that lovely smile that meant he'd done something right. “I know,” she said. “I mean, I know you wouldn't be so cruel to me, not without good reason. I should have given you the benefit of the doubt.”

“I don't deserve you,” Sherlock said.

Molly's eyes went wide, and Sherlock's mouth went dry when he realised what he'd said. “ _It_ ,” he blurted out quickly. “I don't deserve it. The benefit of the doubt.”

He might have thought he'd got away with it, had Molly's cheeks not coloured a pretty pink. Their eyes locked. He edged closer.

Molly's nose twitched. “Toast's burning,” she said, still holding his gaze.

He swallowed, finally tearing his eyes away and stepping back out of the way. “Yes. Right.”

She fished the completely black toast out of the toaster and onto a plate, before deciding it was beyond rescue and tipping it into the rubbish bin.

“More coffee?” she said, too brightly, and refilled their cups, stirring in his sugar, too vigorously .

As he reached for the cup, she frowned. “What happened to your hand?”

“Hmm?” he said, instinctively putting his hands in his pockets again. 

“Have you had that checked?”

“Mm-huh.”

“So John's taken a look?”

'It's nothing.”

She held out her hands, palms upward. “Then let me see.”

Slowly, he removed his left hand from his pocket, baring his wrist to her. She caught his hand between both of hers.

Molly inspected the bruises and scratches on his palm, then turned it over and checked his knuckles. “The right one is worse, I expect?”

He nodded silently and let her swap to his right hand, which was quite hideously swollen. She studied it carefully. “Can you make a fist?”

He tried, only managing about half way before hissing in pain.

“Possible fourth and fifth metacarpal fractures,” Molly said, shaking her head a bit in disapproval. “You'll need an X-ray before you risk picking up your violin again.” Moving to hold his wrist, she carefully pulled his hand up to her face and examined it more closely, tilting her chin down to peer over the top of her glasses. “But this wasn't a fist fight, was it?” she continued, her voice calm, but serious. “The bruises aren't consistent with impact on a soft or semi-soft surface.”

As Sherlock listened and watched her, his head began to swim. Molly Hooper was making a professional deduction, which if he was honest always bloody turned him on, but even worse, here she was deducing _him_ , while lightly running her thumb over the backs of his aching fingers.

He was transfixed.

“There are at least a dozen or so splinters here,” Molly was saying, “so you hit wood, something thin enough to break but strong enough to require substantial force to do so. And you hit it again, and again, and again, even once it was broken.” She frowned. “But why? Why would you do something like that?”

And then it happened.

One moment she was looking up at him, her big brown eyes all awash with concern behind those silly glasses, and the next his left arm was around her back, drawing her closer, watching her mouth open to let out an "oh" of surprise as his lips descended on hers.

Only... she wasn't kissing him back.

In fact, her body was rigid against him. Coming to his senses, Sherlock began to pull away, but then Molly unfroze and let out a little gasp, suddenly tilting her chin and chasing his movement so her lips made full and decisive contact with his. Her felt her slip her arm around his waist, her hand twisting in his dressing gown, and Sherlock pulled her even closer, kissing her properly, revelling in the softness of her mouth, the scent and the taste of her. It was heaven.

His right arm was trapped between their bodies, and he moved sufficiently to free it, his lips never leaving hers, but then, in his stupor, completely forgot about his injury and tried to cup her cheek, catching his hand in her hair in the process.

Pain shot along his arm.

He tried to ignore it but Molly must have noticed him flinch, because she pulled away. “Shit, Sherlock, your hand, I'm sorry!”

She carefully untangled her hair and swept it over her other shoulder, out of the way.

“No, it's fine,” he protested, cursing his clumsiness. He wanted nothing more than to be kissing her again.

Flushed and a little breathless, Molly looked up at him, her glasses askew and partly steamed up. She forehead wrinkled and she reached up to pull them off. “Sorry – blasted things. I didn't have chance to grab my spare contacts.”

“Here. Let me.” With his left hand, Sherlock used the sleeve of his dressing gown to polish the lenses, while she held them, and he glanced up at her and noticed she was looking at his face, smiling softly, in a bit of a daze.

“Oh dear, you messed up your shirt,” Molly said, as she put the glasses back on.

Sherlock looked down with a grimace to where his dressing gown had come partly open, revealing his bloodstained success in doing up exactly two of his shirt buttons. “Yeah, no spare, so...”

“My turn to help,” Molly said, happily, her nimble fingers starting to work their way down and fasten his remaining buttons, growing more hesitant with each one. Such a simple gesture felt strangely intimate.

“There, I'll leave you to finish... umm... that,” she said, biting her lip and stepping away from him, turning to face the window.

“Right. Of course,” he said, quickly stuffing his shirt into his trousers and adjusting his belt, cold hard reality hitting him now there was some distance between them.

He hadn't intended to kiss Molly. He'd managed nine long years of not kissing Molly. Why did he have to go and screw it up now?

“So... any plans for the day?” he said, desperately, his voice coming out in a terrible squeak as he turned back to grab some more bread and shove it in the toaster.

_Idiot_. _Stupid... idiot._

Silence.

He tried again. “Mycroft thought your flat might be-”

“Sherlock,” she cut him off. “You're not... please don't tell me you're going to pretend that didn't happen.”

And there she was, looking uncertain, and hurt, and he didn't know how to fix it. He'd messed it up, already.

He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, but... You're... you're my friend, Molly.”

“So... you want everything to go back to how it was before?”

He sighed. “Ideally, yes.”

“And where does kissing me fall into the scheme of things, exactly? Because I don't think you've done that before. I'm sure I'd remember.”

Sherlock had never felt so out of his depth. Crossing to the kitchen table, he pulled out a chair, and slumped down in it.

He sat there in silence for a while, hunched over, his elbows resting on the table, knowing she was waiting for an explanation.

“Sherlock...”

“It was your coffin.”

“My... coffin?” Molly said, in a small voice.

“At Sherrinford. We went into the room. There was a coffin, with a name plate on the lid. Except it didn't have a name inscribed on it. Instead it said... the phrase I had to make you say.”

Molly said nothing. In his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw her edging closer.

“Afterwards,” he continued... after I had saved you and Eurus revealed it was all a hoax – that there never was a bomb in your flat – well, something in me snapped. The coffin... I imagined you in it... I could _see_ you lying there... _gone_... because of me... and the next thing I remember, I was sitting on the floor, and the coffin was in pieces around me.”

Molly's hand touched his shoulder.

He looked up at her. “I'm sorry... I'm sorry for kissing you... I'm sorry for being an idiot... I'm sorry I'm not who you want, or who you need. I just can't... I can't lose you, Molly.”

“Sherlock,” she said. “Sweetheart. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

Her hand came up and she brushed her fingers over his cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes, and Molly stepped forwards, into his space. It was an invitation he accepted with relief, burying his face in the cloth of her shirt, pressing forwards until he felt the solid warmth of her body beneath, both his arms wrapping around her. Molly gently shushed him, stroking his hair.

_Enough_ , Sherlock thought. He knew what this was. Not an illusion. Not a trick. This was real. He could tell by how much it hurt.

He couldn't hide it from her.

“Molly,” he mumbled, his face still half-turned into her middle. “When I said it to you. I felt it. I _meant_ it.”

It had been so easy, after he'd said it once. It had felt as natural as breathing. That was the cruel thing.

“Help me Molly,” he said, and looked up at her, at her dear face.  “I love you. I love you, and I don't know what to do.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and credit to the Sherlolly hive-mind on Tumblr for the beautiful meta that helped me work out what I wanted to say here.
> 
> There will probably be one more chapter to round things off.


	3. Harbour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly reacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind comments, enthusiasm, and patience! This chapter ended up longer than I intended, so I've split it into two parts.

“Help me Molly. I love you. I love you, and I don't know what to do.”

Molly was still holding him, her left hand at the back of his head, threaded in his curls. Her right hand had slid around when he'd moved his head to look up at her, so her fingers lay across his cheek.

_Does he mean...it really sounds like he means..._

She didn't let herself complete the sentence, even as a thought. Molly was well-practiced in the art of self-preservation.

Sherlock's arms were wrapped around her waist so firmly that she could feel the heat of him seeping through her shirt, his face so close she could almost taste his breath. And his eyes, _oh God his eyes._  Why did he have to be so bloody _intense?_

Her lips were still tingling from kissing him, her cheeks glowing from the scratch of his stubble. She could feel it under her fingers, see the nick on his neck where he'd tried to shave and failed. His hands must not have been up to it. She looked at his mouth. Was he going to kiss her again? If he tried, fool that she was, she would let him. But he didn't move. He was watching her, expectantly, and she recalled that he had not only made a confession; he had asked for her help. What exactly had he said again? It was difficult to concentrate when he was so close, and so focused on her.

She moved her right hand to place it flat against the upper part of his chest, pushing firmly enough that she hoped he would get the message. He studied her face for a moment before he realised, immediately loosening his arms and allowing her to untangled herself.

Molly took two steps back, stopping when she was just out of arm's reach. She half turned away, and looked at the faint shadows on the wall cast by the morning sunlight. That was better. The fog of her thoughts began to coalesce into something resembling a plan. _Don't panic_ , was her first thought.  _This is Sherlock._   _He's probably just being over-dramatic. Hold it together, Hooper. Be objective._

“You love John,” she said, decisively, folding her arms across her chest. “You even admitted it to an audience, on his wedding day. It's not so bad to love your friends. I don't think you need to _do_ anything.”

Sherlock actually rolled his eyes at her. “Not like that Molly. You're my friend, of course you, are but I'm not saying I love you like a friend. Or like family, either, before you suggest that.”

Molly shook her head. “Then what's left? Not romantic love, you've said enough times that it's not for you.”

“When you eliminate the impossible whatever remains however improbable must be the truth.”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed. “You're right. I didn't believe it was for me. Not until yesterday, when you made me say those words. Then I felt them. I _understood_ them. I thought it might have just been because my sister had manipulated my emotions, by putting you in danger, but I felt the same when I saw you again. I feel the same now.”

“Sherlock," she said, carefully, "what you went through yesterday was traumatic. It wouldn't be surprising if there was some residual psychological damage- ”

“No, Molly," he interrupted. "You must understand, please listen to me. It's not _damage_. I wouldn't be saying this if I wasn't sure. It wasn't what happened yesterday that made me love you. I have for a long time, I was just too much of an idiot to recognise it. Yesterday was just... the drop that spilled the cup.”

Molly had been on the receiving end of Sherlock's charm enough times to recognise when he was acting and when he was being genuine.

All the self-preservation in the world couldn't prevent her from putting this firmly in the second category.

“Oh my God,” she said, feeling lightheaded. “Oh my fucking God.”

She saw his face fall in concern, heard the scrape of the chair as he lurched towards her.

Then everything went black.

~*~

“Here, sit down. Lean forward. There you go.”

Resting her head on her knees, Molly became aware of her surroundings and found she was sitting on a sofa, and someone was stroking her hair. She turned her face to the side, only to be met with Sherlock's intense gaze.

Molly groaned and turned her face away. “Uhh... stop doing that.”

His hand stilled on her. “What?”

“Looking.”

“Oh.”

“How long was I out for?”

“Less than a minute. How do you feel now?”

“A bit sick.”

“Your blood sugar has probably crashed. Wait there a second.”

As his footsteps retreated, Molly shifted to put her legs up on the sofa, curling up on to her side.

_He loves me_ , she thought. _He actually loves me. But he's not happy about it. What's going on in that scary brain of his?_

Sherlock returned carrying a steaming mug. He knelt on the floor by her end of the sofa. “Can you sit up enough to drink this?”

Molly nodded, sitting up slowly and holding out a wobbly hand. Sherlock kept hold of the mug while she took a sip of the sweet tea, insisting she the took another and another before he put the mug on the coffee table.

“Better?” he said.

Molly nodded. “Thank you. Wait a minute, did you carry me in here?”

Sherlock just gave her a rather smug smile.

_He likes the idea of that_ , Molly realised. _Heroically catching the swooning girl_. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Somewhere in the hallway a clock chimed. “Shit.” Molly sat up and straightened her glasses. “I'm working this morning. What time is it?”

“You've recently been evacuated after a terrorist threat to your flat and the stress of the situation just caused you to lose consciousness, isn't that a good enough excuse to take the day off?”

_Not strictly true._   _I'd pretty much forgotten about my flat_.

Molly stood up. “There's no one to run the lab if I bunk off, no one to sort out the students, and if I leave the paperwork that just means more to do when I get back. Oh... too fast.”

In an instant Sherlock's arm was around her back. “Easy there.”

She steadied herself on his arm and blinked, waiting for her vision to clear. “It's fine. I'm okay now. Thank you.”

He let go of her and she walked carefully to the bedroom to fetch the few belongings she'd managed to bring with her in the chaos of the previous night. _He kissed me_ , her thoughts chanted, on a perpetual loop. _He loves me... he kissed me... he loves me..._

Sherlock was right about work, actually; Mike was an understanding boss and of course he'd be sympathetic after what had happened last night. But there was no way she could think straight while Sherlock watched. It was all too much, and too sudden. It was amazing, but also immensely troubling, because Sherlock seemed to be convinced this was A Very Big Problem, and he expected Molly to help him solve it. _I'm sorry I'm not who you want, or who you need,_ he'd said. Did he really believe that was true? Damn it, she needed time away from him to get her head together.

Sherlock was still waiting in the sitting room when she returned, and gave her a forlorn look. “You're still intent on going to work, then.”

Molly tried to reassure him with a smile. “I have to. Oh, and I had a message from Mycroft. My flat has been given the all clear. So I can go straight back there from work.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, looking even more miserable.

Molly felt a stab of guilt. Was she doing the right thing? He'd asked her to help him, because he was clearly in unchartered emotion territory, and here she was, running off to work.

She thought for a moment. “I'm not ignoring what you said. It's just rather a lot to take in. I need a bit of time to think about it. Does that make sense?”

Sherlock nodded and looked away. “I don't know why I blurted it out like that.”

“No, it's fine. I appreciate your honesty. Listen, I wondered... if you'd come by later, when I finish work? After what happened last night, and knowing the cameras were there for God knows how long... I just don't feel comfortable being there on my own.”

It was true, every word of it. Usually, of course, she'd just give herself a pep talk and get on with it. But if Sherlock needed to be needed, well then allowing herself a little vulnerability wouldn't hurt.

“Mycroft will have security keeping an eye on you,” Sherlock said, dismissively. “There's no need to be concerned.”

Molly took a little step closer, and tried again. “Yes, but I'd still feel safer... if you were there.”

Sherlock considered this for a few moments, and the idea seemed to grow on him. In fact, he visibly perked up. “Well, okay then, if that's what you want.”

“Yes it is, if you're free, and if you don't mind.”

“What time?”

I should be back by half six.”

“Right. I have some unpleasant family business to attend to with Mycroft today, but I should be finished by then.”

It was only when she sitting on the bus ten minutes later that she realised she'd forgotten the one thing she'd planned to say to him this morning. She pulled out her phone and composed a message.

**Can I make a request? x**

The reply came a few seconds later.

**Anything. SH**

_He probably isn't going to like this_ , Molly thought, as she tapped out the text.

**Go easy on Mycroft. This will have been hard on him too.**

Sherlock's reply took a little longer this time.

**It's about to get harder today. He's got to tell our parents. SH**

Molly had feared it was something like that. She typed her reply.

**Then you should tell them too.**

**Tell them what? SH**

**That he did his best.**

This time his response was almost immediate:

**That won't be good enough.**

_What am I getting involved with?_   Molly thought. Her stop was coming up, but she couldn't leave it as that. She dashed out a reply and hit send.

**Sometimes it has to be. Good luck. xxx**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final part coming up soon, after just a little more editing.


	4. Conquered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has something important to say.

Molly arrived home to find Sherlock sitting on her front garden wall.

He held up a keyring containing two shiny keys. “These are for you. The locks have been changed, not that that would make the slightest difference to anyone more sophisticated than your common or garden burglar, but it's protocol, apparently.”

“Okay,” Molly said, thinking it was rather nice that he had decided to wait outside for her, rather than let himself in, when he didn't even have to pick the lock. He'd shaved, she noticed, then quickly tried to un-notice, as her gaze lingered on his neck. Too late. No more cuts. So he went to the barbers. That explained the expensive-smelling cologne.

She cleared her throat. “So you got those checked out,” she said, indicating the dressings on both of his hands as she took the keys. What was the verdict?”

“Hairline fracture of the fifth metacarpal on my right hand,” he said, leaning against the door frame as she fumbled to unlock the front door. “I need to work on my boxing technique.”

“Now _that_ will definitely have to wait,” Molly said lightly, leading the way up the stairs to her flat, relieved that the damage wasn't severe; he'd likely have reacted terribly to an injury that permanently affected his violin playing.

Molly let them into her flat and flicked on the lights, feeling a bit silly that she's been apprehensive about coming back alone. She hung up her jacket and the bag of borrowed clothes from Mycroft's place. She kept a spare set at work, so she'd been able to shower and change before leaving, and swap those silly glasses for fresh contact lenses.

Then she glanced through the doorway that led to the kitchen.

“Bloody hell!”

Molly rushed into the kitchen, to find that yes, it was as bad as it looked. Cupboards open, drawers tipped out, piles of books on the floor. The contents of her freezer had been dumped on the counter, and were now defrosting and swimming in a puddle of water, which was dripping off the edge and soaking into her favourite rug. The fridge door was open, her pot plants overturned...

“Ah.” Behind her, Sherlock, who had not taken off his coat, was standing in the doorway, scanning the devastation.

“Every room's going to be like this, isn't it?” Molly muttered, and left Sherlock fiddling with his phone to check out the rest of the flat. Her heart sank further with every room. They seemed to have disturbed every single book, item of clothing and piece of paper in the place. Completing her tour, she made her way back to the kitchen, feeling deflated. Yes, she knew all this had been done to protect her, but she'd been so preoccupied thinking about Sherlock's confession from earlier in the day that she hadn't even considered the bomb disposal team might not have tidied up after themselves. All she'd wanted to do was make a simple meal and sit in a quiet place with Sherlock and say the things she'd worked out she needed to say. But now she was going to spend the whole night tidying up instead.

And clearly Sherlock was not going to volunteer to help her. In fact he seemed to have disappeared. _Great_.

Molly slumped down at the table and put her head in her hands.

“Right. Come on then.”

OK, so he'd not disappeared. “Come on where?” she said.

He held out out her jacket impatiently. “Out.”

She sighed. “I can't Sherlock, look at the state of the place. Putting it off won't help. It's not going to clear itself up.”

“Oh yes it is,” he said, as he tugged her to her feet, bundled her into her jacket and spun her into the hallway, all in one movement. “Or rather my brother, whose fault all of this is, if you remember, is paying for a discreet and efficient cleaning team to come and fix his mess. They'll be here in about twenty minutes, so we need to get out of the way.”

Molly grabbed her purse and keys from the hall table as he steered her past and out of the door. “But where are we going?”

There was a glint in his eyes when he looked down at her. “To dinner, of course.”

~*~

She fully expected him to drag her along to a chip shop or some late-night greasy spoon cafe, so when they finally arrived at a small, welcoming Italian bistro, Molly was pleasantly surprised.

The staff knew Sherlock (of course they did) and made a fuss of them, quickly ushering them a nice quiet table for two at the back of the restaurant. Sherlock winked at her when the waiter swooped in to light the candle and call them a “beautiful couple,” and Molly bit her lip, laughing with awkwardness, but also delight.

Molly ordered spaghetti carbonara and green salad, and Sherlock, who had not looked at the menu, said he'd have the same. The food was good, and the wine _very_ good, (Sherlock even drank a little of the half glass she poured him), and he entertained her with tales of the various patrons of London establishments who owed him a favour, and of his first few weeks in Baker street.

“John hasn't been able to stomach steak and kidney pudding since," Sherlock was saying, while flourishing a breadstick. “Mrs Hudson claims she's never recovered, but at least she's not tried to clean the fridge again.”

Molly tried not to laugh. “Oh Sherlock... that's awful.” Poor Mrs Hudson. But it _was_ funny.

“Could have been worse. She made spotted dick the week after.”

He waggled his eyebrows at her and Molly lost it at that, snorting ungracefully with laughter, which set him off too, until tears were running down both their cheeks.

When Molly finally got her breath and glanced up at Sherlock, he looked so genuinely happy and relaxed that her heart soared. His left hand was resting on the table and on the spur of the moment she reached across and crept the tips of her fingers over his.

“I'm glad we came here,” she said.

He shifted his hand so his fingers covered hers “As am I.”

 _I'm so happy_ , Molly thought, sniffing and rubbed away her tears with a napkin, allowing herself one long look at his beautiful face. _God if this goes wrong it's really going to hurt._

He must have noticed her expression change. “What's the matter? Are you feeling unwell?”

“No it's not that, I'm fine... everything about this evening has been so lovely, I'd almost forgotten about... well, I haven't even had chance to ask how your day went.”

His hand left hers. “About as badly as could be expected.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.” _Maybe back off with the unsolicited advice next time, Molly._

 _Right,_ she decided _. Time to face the music_. “Do you want to talk about what you said this morning?”

“Ah. That really happened then?”

She smiled. “Is that a yes?”

More lip-pursing as he fiddled with his napkin. “It was too much, wasn't it?”

“Yeah, a bit. But I've had chance to think about it, and I have a few things I'd like to say.”

Sherlock put the napkin down and sat still, giving her his full attention. “Go on.”

“You asked me what you should do, implying you believed we could not or should not do what people would normally do in this situation– ”

“What _would_ people normally do?” he interrupted.

“I dunno... be happy, celebrate, tell their friends. Become... a couple.”

Sherlock looked, frankly... alarmed. Molly's heart sank a little. “You've never wanted that,” she said. “You still don't want it.”

“Molly. I don't care what people _normally_ do, as I'm sure you're aware. I've never wanted that. But... I want _you_.”

She looked up at him. “You do?”

“Yes.”

“But on the other hand, you also said that _you_ were not what _I_ wanted, or what _I_ needed.”

“Well, I deduced that to be the case a long time ago.”

“You did? Because I've spent all day trying to think of a time when I walked away from you, or gave up on you, or when I said I didn't want you. I don't recall ever saying or doing that.”

“Well... you got engaged, when you knew I was still alive.”

She looked at him in disbelief. “You expected me to wait... hoping one day you'd return and suddenly decide to love me back?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don't know. Yes.”

“Is that why you seemed so sad, when you told me you hoped I'd be very happy?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Oh Sherlock," she said, "I would have... of course I would have, but you'd never given me the slightest indication that my feelings were returned.”

She thought for a moment before continuing, choosing her words carefully. “When you were away and I met Tom, I thought he _was_ what I wanted. Kind, smart, funny, handsome, and he loved me. But when you came back... you eclipsed him, totally. It didn't matter which boxes he ticked, because he wasn't you. He pleaded with me, told me I was stupid for giving up the future we'd planned together for a man who would never find me beautiful, who would never appreciate me. But he knew, after John and Mary's wedding, that it was the beginning of the end. I couldn't give you up.”

“Perhaps you knew,” Sherlock said quietly, “how I felt. Even though I did not.”

“Hmm?”

“You see things I don't. Perhaps you'd already worked it out.”

“Perhaps I was a bloody idiot,” she said.

“No. _He_ was bloody idiot,” Sherlock replied, “if he didn't see it.”

“See what?”

“That I found you beautiful.”

He was doing the intense look again. Molly wondered if it was possible to blush with your whole body. “You... you did?”

“Oh not you as well.” Sherlock said, with a dramatic sigh. “Of course I did. Of course I _do_. It come with the territory, doesn't it? The love thing. Aesthetically pleasing features become beautiful when combined with the personality beneath. I admit I am not exactly an expert.”

 _The love thing_. Molly tried not to grin, she really tried.

Sherlock studied her. “You find this information pleasing?”

Molly rolled her eyes at him. “Don't pretend you don't know. It's just... I thought you were above all that... stuff. I didn't know if you were attracted to _anybody_. If you are then you're bloody good at hiding it.”

“Years of practice. Experiencing sexual attraction is an unwelcome distraction. I learned a long time ago to suppress it.” He fixed her with that look again, intensity turned up to eleven. “Unless, of course, I choose not to.”

 _Blimey_. Molly swallowed the lump in her throat. This wasn't the discussion that had been on her agenda for the evening. She'd always thought that, despite some of her more lurid fantasies, Sherlock was probably quite inexperienced with sex. But the way he'd kissed her that morning, and the way he was looking at her now... very possibly she'd read him all wrong. She hastily filed that away for contemplation later, because she was dangerously close to forgetting the point she was trying to make. She tore her eyes away from him and poured herself a glass of water.

“Sherlock? There's something else I need to say. I don't think you're going to like it, but I need to say it, so please hear me out.”

Sherlock bit his lip, but said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

Molly took a deep breath. “You were right. There is something about you that I don't want. Something that I hate, in fact."

She took a sip of her water, sneaking a tiny glance at him. That had hurt him, she could see it on his face. _Does he know what I'm going to say?_   she thought. She couldn't tell. Even more reason to say it.

"I don't want Sherlock the addict," she said, putting her glass down on the table. "The junkie who risks everything for a quick fix because he's too scared to face the fact he might have failed at something, who self-medicates with hard drugs and thinks he's still in control. I don't need the constant nagging fear that one day it will be you on my slab and that you put yourself there because you thought you could outwit medical science. I can't stand by, knowing that if you don't die of an overdose your beautiful brain will be destroyed in ten years anyway, and that you'll be dead in fifteen, because of the damage you're doing.”

She couldn't look at him, now she was in full flow, because she had to get to the end of this without faltering. “Unless you can understand what I feel,” she continued, “when I see you in that state, when I know you're playing Russian roulette, and you don't give a shit about the consequences for everyone who cares about you, unless you're prepared to take those feelings of mine into account, then there can be no future for us, as a couple, or whatever you want to call it, however you want to define it. I'll always be your friend, I'll always love you, but I won't go any further you unless you can do this one thing for me. No more drugs. Ever.”

“Molly, I –”

She held up her hand. “I'm not done. I'm afraid it's not enough for you to say you'll try. I need you to prove it. So that we are completely clear on the matter, these are my conditions. We agree on a period of time, and I mean months, not weeks, over which you can demonstrate your commitment to staying clean. You use this time to start coming to terms with what you've learned about your childhood, and to work out what you might want from a relationship from me. Meanwhile, we carry on as before. I will be here for you, as I've always been. You get tested, every week, to prove that you're drug-free. Then, when the time is up, if you are sure you want more than friendship, we take it from there.”

 _Phew_. That was it. That was the hard bit. Still she didn't look at him. her voice softened when she spoke again. “If you want us to be together, Sherlock, I will try my very hardest to make it work. I'm not scared of failing at that. But you have to stay clean. I'll help you, in every way that I can. But I won't tolerate failures where your addiction is concerned. And I won't keep giving you chances. I know this sounds harsh. I know I'm going on about it in exactly the way you hate. But I deserve this. I don't want to argue about it. I just need to know if you agree or not.”

Molly looked down at her hands, bracing herself for his reaction. He'd never given her an inch before, where the drugs were concerned. And now she was asking for a mile.

When there was still no reply, she finally gathered the courage to look up at him.

He was staring at his wine glass, deep in thought, his expression inscrutable.

“Sherlock?” she said, in a small voice.

He looked up. He wasn't angry. Still just... thoughtful.

“I wonder if she planned this,” he said quietly.

Molly blinked. “Who... what?”

“My sister.”

She glanced around, worriedly. “What... I don't understand.”

“No, don't be afraid,” he said, and reached out and put his bandaged hand on hers. “She's not watching us. I mean... perhaps that was the reason for the phone call.” He was speaking half to himself, as if he was still working it out. “You were right, I didn't understand, before, the fear of losing someone. With Mary, it was over so fast, there was no fear, just disbelief. With John, yes his life has been threatened before but it was as acute as...” He looked up at her. “By putting you in danger, Eurus made me understand that feeling, that horror, and you're right... it's agony." He shook his head. "All these years... I was determined not to treat you badly and yet all this time I've been hurting you in a way that I didn't understand.”

He looked so anguished. Molly couldn't help herself. She reached across the table and touched his cheek. “Hey. It's okay. It's going to be just fine. Whether she did it deliberately or not, your sister has helped you. You know who you really are. You're allowed to love people. And you're allowed to let people love you.”

“Really?”

“Of course, silly,” she said, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

Sherlock turned and pressed a kiss to her palm. He closed his eyes for a moment, then clasped her hand between both of his.

“Well, Molly Hooper,” he said, eventually. “I think you've got me. As I have always said, love is a dangerous disadvantage.”

She frowned at him, _hoping_...

“I concede.”

“You agree?” she said, “to my conditions, you actually agree?”

He nodded. “How long? You said months. How long?”

“How about three?”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

_Three months until I can kiss you again? You bet it will be hard. But so, so worth it._

“You can do it,” she said. “I believe you can.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know. That's agreed then. Three months.”

Molly's heart soared. She forgot his dressings in her excitement and squeezed his hand.

It was at that exact moment that the waiter turned up, with their "special" dessert: tiramisu for two, bearing two lit sparklers. He placed the dish between them, showering the table in sparks, but irrespective of the danger, Sherlock wouldn't let go of her hand.

Molly laughed. "Thank you,"she said, to the waiter, then mouthed the same thing at Sherlock. _Thank you_.

“Don't thank me _,_ Molly,” he said, when they were finally left alone, and he squeezed her hand tightly, in spite of his injury. There were tears in his eyes, from the pain, perhaps, or something else. “I believe you may have just saved my life.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now! Thanks for reading, and the love and comments, you guys are the best. 
> 
> Thanks to your encouragement, I have the M-rated sequel planned already, which will take them up to happy Molly at the end of TFP. :)


End file.
